


BEAUTIFUL NOTHINGS.

by youubi



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M, Mental Instability, Mildly Dubious Consent, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 23:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16690720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youubi/pseuds/youubi
Summary: “And by the end of tonight? This night? Well, my beautiful pet . . .”He places a kiss, deep, and full of that twisted love he has grown accustomed to, that this . . . chaos, this storm below him, was stubborn enough to love. Jhin’s voice lowers to a mere whisper, and the beautiful pistol in the holster upon his hip seems to titter in response.“. . . you will know who you truly belong to.”✒ beautiful nothings whispered in a dark, dirty tavern.





	BEAUTIFUL NOTHINGS.

Gunpowder stained fingers tap along the worn oakwood of the bartop counter. 

 

_ One _ .  _ Two _ .  _ Three _ .  _ Four _ . 

 

Even. 

 

His other hand taps another rhythm along his leg. 

 

_ One _ .  _ Two _ .  _ Three _ .  _ Four _ .

 

True balance.  _ Perfection _ .

 

Bloodshot eyes peer from behind an expressionless flesh-mask (for he has abandoned his metallic self for tonight, this is not a day of his own artwork), peering, watching,  _ observing _ , this mulling crowd of strangers, meer fellow bystanders to the true piece of art in this room. His eyes wander back to the broken stage, half-rotten, most likely pine based off the woody smell that drifted behind the heavy aroma of alcohol in the dark tavern. The single stage-light that still worked among the original four flickered like a flame, but it did little to deprive the  _ blooming flame  _ on stage, a flame that easily carried its own  **GOLDEN LIGHT** . 

 

Jhin’s fingers flex impatiently upon the counter as a nearby man chuckles, for how dare they not notice this pinnacle of art standing, obviously anxiously awaiting, for the cue that begins his art, the battle-dance. Whisper murmurs from her holster upon his hip, and he quietly hushes her restless barrel, running his free hand over the metallic object. She stills, for now, that lust for death satiated by the mere presence of that idol of wilderness who awaited the perfect time to begin.

 

Then, a single wing, alone upon that flame’s broad, strong back, signals the beginning of the show, lifting from its previous resting position, shimmering and beholden above the crowd, a swift gasp or air cutting through the tavern atmosphere. Any mumbles of conversation that hung in the room falls to a hush with a sudden breath, and all pairs of eyes are drawn to that  _ golden  _ muse,  **HIS** muse. 

 

The Vastayan was already exotic among these mundane peers with his feral grin and the chaos he carries within those movements, but his coloration . . . a striking combination of that lovely pure white and blood-like crimson, the shimmering green that decors his feathers moving in their magical shimmer upon the beauty that are his beloved golden feathers. A pair of striking icy eyes peers coyly above the collar of that red cape, and lithe fingers do little work to the ropes keeping the article of clothing upon his body to let the barrier fall, revealing the rest of that well-defined dancer, his very being an echo of the arts of the ancient people and their search for perfection.

 

Here he was, their  _ Adonis _ .

 

And, as always, Jhin cannot tear his eyes away.

 

The music begins, slowly, played by some small group of bards from some unknown part of Ionia hidden behind the darkness of the backstage. The tune is quite obviously flawed, slightly off-tune, grating to the well-trained ear, but not enough to draw away attention from the star that began to move on stage.

 

He begins with a slow drag of his toes, inhuman but all the more wondrous, letting the drag of those beast-like claws marr the stage with the presence of him. Then those arms, shaped, perfect, lifts to the air, as if grasping to some overhead deity, hands splayed and outreached, his expression longing (and Jhin’s breath catches in his throat, feeling his heart skip-a-beat). 

 

Then the music begins to pick up, and the head lowers in a breathy laugh, expression now full of agonizing flirtatiousness,  _ sultry  _ and  _ lascivious _ , those sculpted hips moving in wonderful circles to the cheers of the (abhorrently dense and barbaric, as Jhin notes) tavern crowd. The dancer is flushed with the thrill of the dance, of activity and movement. That well-formed body moves, flows, and absolutely thrives upon the stage, and it is as if the very focus of the earth had moved to this battle-dancer, as if the music had faded away to the heavy air, mere background noise to the true beauty of the dance.

 

Jhin picks up the mug that had gone abandoned before on the bartop now behind him (he must have subconsciously turned his very seat to gaze upon the stage), and he sips at the warm ale, the singular tastes of hops running over his sensitive tongue, an unrefined product, but so is the absolutely undomesticated  **MASTERPIECE** that danced in front of him. But nothing can refine this art, no, it must remain untouched. Whisper quakes once more from her holster, and he reminds himself again.

 

Patience. This is not the time. This is not  _ his  _ time.

 

The dance ends as abruptly as it begins, those arms crossing over the other in a pose of triumphant victory, that enigmatic icy gaze resting once more on the ceiling in some expression of self-glory. And the crowd whoops, hollers, standing and cheering to this now bowing figure, who cried out his gratitude to this “wondrous crowd” (oh, and Jhin must avoid rolling his eyes, for this crowd should not even be deemed  _ worthy  _ to view such a primal, emotional art). But nonetheless, Jhin rises from his seat, politely thanking his bartender and leaving a generous tip upon the countertop before moving quietly to the wooden stage.

 

The Vastayan takes his cloak, forgotten in the corner of the stage, and drapes it over his shoulder, waving once more to his adoring crowd before jumping off the precarious platform, landing steadily upon those dancer’s feet. His eyes sweep over the crowd, and Jhin feels a tug in his throat (looking for him, he was searching for  _ Jhin _ ). He approaches the Lhotlan, clearing his throat.

 

One of those striped feathered ears flick in response, and the Lhotlan turns a (deliciously) delighted grin taking those handsome features. A firm grip, and words doubting Jhin’s presence leaves those smiling lips.

 

Jhin smiles, the image of the perfect gentleman, unknown and false to the rest of the crowd, a long finger beckoning the Lhotlan to some quieter corner of the tavern. And the dancer, oh, the beloved, adoring,  _ obedient  _ dancer, follows, still speaking a mind full of wandering thoughts.

 

And once the darkness encapsulates them, hides them from peering and leering eyes, Jhin firmly grasps the dancer’s wrist, pulling him to the tavern wall and placing those hungry, probing lips upon the  **GOLDEN FLAME** , a fire warm and burning with a return of vigor, open lips equally as hungry, equally as lustful. 

 

Jhin does not mind the bawdiness of these acts, no, not for this creature, this creature that tests his very will and being with every turn of the head, with every show of the neck and flutter of the lashes. The stiffness of the canvas of his slacks told him everything, and a wandering hand had him confirming the same about his muse. He whispers, seductively, revealingly into that long ear.

 

“A room. I’ve booked a room.”

 

And with a small sigh that Jhin could only translate as confirmation, the two of them swiftly move to the tavern stairs, two pairs of feet moving quick over that creaking, stained ground, moving to the privacy of a small room, quaint, only adorned with a bedside table and the bed itself. 

 

And that was all these two needed. The door is closed in a rush behind them, and Jhin is pushed aggressively against the wall, a parallel of the gesture he had done before, sharp fangs and even sharper claws running down the veins of his neck. 

 

He is full of momentary anger (for this is HIS belonging, how dare his belonging command what he does), but he releases the rage through the movement of his fingers, watching his fingers run through that downy white hair, through the red locks that ran so stark against that regal forehead. 

 

A sharp pain causes him to tug, the dancer’s head dragged back to reveal a feral expression, a rivulet of red (the same color of that gaudy cape, of those locks of hair) running down that shapely chin, those turquoise eyes so full of ardor that it makes Jhin’s breath catch once more, and he cannot help but chuckle, a slim finger slipping beneath the thick rope that keeps those silken pants upon that beautiful hip (and Jhin grips that hip, reveling in the bruising that is left behind).

 

“Do you trust me?”

 

The bird of paradise nods without any senseful thought, lost to the sway of passion. 

 

Jhin grins, crooked, amused, and he lightly pushes this beast away. He reaches into his slacks pocket, tugging out three long lines of  _ golden  _ silken rope. He turns that dancer around, taking a moment to admire that sculpted back, the perfection of those rippling muscles so different from his own skinny figure. To think that this strong, beautiful creature who has all the means to turn, to rip his own pulsing heart straight out of his small chest, to revel in the blood and kill of a broken man, and yet is here so pliant underneath his artistic fingers. It makes him shiver in wonder, in some deprived pleasure, that he has total control, that this beast was so obedient to him and him  _ only _ .

 

The artist is brought out of his thoughts to a small keening whine, dog-like in nature, and he comforts his creature with a small hush and a single finger running over those soft worried lips. His other hand brings one of those silken ropes up to that mouth, one of those fingers running over the razor edge of those sharp fangs as he places that rope between those jaws. Another hand, skilled, places the silk over those feral eyes, covering that intense gaze with the golden shimmer of magical silk. Finally, with the utmost comforting murmurs and loving touch, he ties that final rope over those wily hands, watching them writhe with a glint of glee to his eye.

 

And carefully, gently, Jhin guides this creature to the bed awaiting them in the middle of the room, pushing that Lhotlan onto the cotton sheets and immediately sitting atop his beautiful muse.

 

Long nails drag lightly down a tan, muscular chest, running down lightly over stiffening nubs, those amber eyes peering intently at the gagged, blindfolded vastaya. White teeth struggle against the enchanted golden silk (for no other material can withstand the power of the Vastayan maw) currently sitting in that pink mouth, those red lips, swollen from the struggle, curled in that ever present charming,  _ wanting  _ smile.

 

Jhin places a gentle,  possessive , kiss upon a corner of that mouth, and the Vastayan shudders, the only noise present in the room the aroused breaths of the golden Lhotlan and the amused hums of the man that was currently ravishing him. He runs a hand over those golden feathers, alit with the lust that their owner was writhing in, the iridescence intense and absolutely  _ gorgeous _ . The ropes shimmer in return, as if responding to the feathers that they were made from.

 

“I love you more when you cannot speak, thank you for providing me such wonderful material for these beautiful ropes . . .” 

 

Jhin speaks lowly, to the bruises he was currently leaving upon that muscled canvas, nipping at the scars already marred upon him (and he is briefly angry that these were not by him, they were not left by Jhin . . . But with time, yes, with time . . . they will be covered by his own marks, his own  **ART** ).

 

His beautiful adonis can only whine in response, and Jhin places one of his temptful hands upon the hem of that Prussian blue fabric, slowly dragging the material down and over that stiffening organ, eliciting another whine and gasp from the Vastaya. 

 

Jhin takes the organ in hand, a sadistic smile upon his lips as he tightens his grip, another one of those delightful gasps (of pain, of pleasure) leaving those gagged lips before being followed with a wet sob. 

 

“Your performance was beautiful, Rakan, absolutely stunning. Undefined and  _ rough _ , but in a way that reminds me . . . that reminds me of the forests of our lovely Ionia.”

 

A sharp tug, and another sob full of that alluring lust. Jhin revels in the sound, sitting back and letting waves of his own sort of pleasure run over his body. He places his own hand upon his stiffening pants once more, pressing in time with his ministrations to  _ his  _ muse,  **HIS** possession. A low moan leaves those thin lips, and he watches with a broken laugh as Rakan’s ear perks in response. 

 

He leans forward, resting his own still clothed chest upon that bare muscular one, making sure that his breath can tickle the sensitive flesh of the dancer’s throat.

 

“Your performance tonight reminded me of that . . . that you are wonderful . . . and it has  _ also  _ told all those other  _ buffoons  _ who cannot understand the arts . . .  **OUR** artwork,  **OUR** . . .  _ masterpieces _ .”

 

A thin finger runs up the veins he can feel in that stiff object, and Rakan’s head jerks to the side. Jhin laughs once more, and the rowdy cheers of the crowd below them is drowned by the wanting and needy groans and whines of this Lhotlan below him.

 

“And by the end of tonight? This night? Well, my beautiful pet . . .”

 

He places a kiss, deep, and full of that twisted love he has grown accustomed to, that this . . . chaos, this  _ storm,  _ below him was stubborn enough to love. Jhin’s voice lowers to a mere whisper, and the beautiful pistol in the holster upon his hip seems to titter in response.

 

“. . . you will know who you truly  _ belong  _ to.”

**Author's Note:**

> uh what do i call the ding-dong so it doesn’t sound silly. . . . ALSO DO I INCLUDE A SAFEWORD ??? WOULD JHIN USE ONE ??? I WANNA BUT IDK ITS SO im vry split on this begins to SCREAM anyways i hope you enjoyed this p-please give me some advice or feedback on what i could improve on im super new to nsfw stuff and uhhhh thanks !!!


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